


Every Man You Put Your Hands On (You Make Him Feel So Goddamn Handsome)

by geckoholic



Series: author's favorites [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics), Midnighter (Comics)
Genre: Casual Sex, First Time, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, New 52, Pillow Talk, Rimming, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:38:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8220937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: Midnighter's movements are quick and casual and nothing in his body language flags this as threatening. He puts the shirt away, neatly folded, and isn't so much as looking at Dick. And that leads Dick to a bit of an uncomfortable conclusion: this isn't fear. It's much worse.
Aka that awkward moment when your unhinged psychopathic frenemy in the making is actually attractive out of costume, and the knowledge that you shouldn't do anything about that only holds up for so long.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [navaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/navaan/gifts).



> Written for the prompt _Midnighter is hurt on a mission but isn't good at accepting help - good thing Dick has some experience with people like that_. It... went to some other places, from there, and arrived at this nonsense. Oops? For timeline context: the start of this is set during the Russia mission in the Midnighter/Grayson crossover, and the rest of it happens shortly after that. 
> 
> Beta-read by brenda and shenshen77, who both heroically endured me freaking out at them about this A LOT. Thank you both so much!! ♥ I fiddled with it after the last full beta-read, so all remaining mistakes are most definitely mine.
> 
> Title is from "Gorgeous" by X-Ambassadors.

When Midnighter threw around the words _bathing house_ and _steam sauna_ , Dick had honestly expected him to be joking; or, at the very least, exaggerating. But here they are, in the locker room of an expensive club that does, indeed, offer such extravaganzas. In the interest of keeping a low profile, they both showed up in civilian attire. They've been keeping it casual for most of this mission, for lack of a better word, because _abduction_ ceased to be fitting about ten minutes in. Maybe that's part of why everything feels weirdly off center and half a step to the side; Midnighter's not supposed to be human. He's not supposed to run around in shirts and jeans, sip coffee and be normal. It doesn't fit. It also means Dick lost any and all ability to parse him. 

He watches Midnighter’s back as he shrugs out of his plain button-down to reveal a simple white muscle shirt, and as he grips the hem to shed it too. He watches him stand there shirtless and utterly unconcerned, and there's a shiver making its way down Dick's spine that takes him a moment to identify. It could be fear; that would be the correct reaction in context. He _should_ feel unsafe around a man whose enhancements would make him hard to take down one-on-one if it came to that. One whose morality is questionable at best, and who pastes on leers and throws around flirtatious little comments at every available opportunity. Dick isn’t helpless in any way, but he’s also been trained to realistically assess his chances in a fight, and to recognize when he’s outclassed so he’ll know when he needs to either find another strategy or run and come back another day. 

But Midnighter's movements are quick and casual and nothing in his body language flags this as threatening. He puts the shirt away, neatly folded, and isn't so much as looking at Dick. And that leads Dick to a bit of an uncomfortable conclusion: this isn't fear. It's much worse. 

Because not only is Midnighter undeniably human and normal by the looks of it, he's also not exactly unattractive. He's not pretty, in a classic sense, but handsome in a rough way that actually fits him better. Broad shoulders, strong build, not as excessively bulky as the costume suggests, and yes, on second thought, there is no way around it. Dick likes what he sees. And even as the realization fires its way through his synapses, he's fully aware how inadvisable that is. 

Midnighter's fingers still on the heavy belt buckle of his trousers, and he turns, quirks an eyebrow. Dick meets his gaze and discards all thoughts about what a wonderfully balanced shoulder-to-hip-ratio he's got going on. 

“Look,” he says, eyeing Dick up and down. “I can’t fault you if you got a little distracted, but this isn’t a strip show, and you gotta catch up at some point.”

Dick considers a reminder that he actually doesn’t have to do anything Midnighter tells him. Something appropriately snippy, pointing out that he’s neither here under his own volition nor under orders. But everything else aside, he does agree with the mission Midnighter’s snatched him into, even though their methods don’t align. How he got here won't matter to the people that need their help. Combine that with the fact that he could slip out and call for backup from, not one, but two different sources whenever he’d like, and it probably does mean that, by now, he _is_ here under his own free will. Well. More or less. 

He unbuttons his shirt and takes it off, but stops again when it comes to unbuttoning his pants. Forces himself to remember that the guy he's developing the hots for is a _killer_ and has abducted him twice now. He's ruthless. He's dangerous. An attraction like that isn't just inadvisable, it's downright stupid. 

And see, Dick isn't necessarily an adrenaline junkie. He's too rational for that. He wouldn't chase a high just for fun. Nevertheless, the most joy he's ever felt stems from jumping without safety nets, in the literal and the proverbial sense. Some of his wires might be crossed, either have never been attached correctly or got rewired later in life, but he's got a head on his shoulders that's capable of overriding the pleasure center in his brain. He makes himself remember the first time Midnighter dragged him through a _door_ mid-mission. Their fight. The cell in the God Garden. The very reasonable, very advisable fear he'd felt then. 

If nothing else, his current companion is perceptive, because just as Dick recalls that memory Midnighter turns again, now in his underwear, and sighs. “You look uneasy.”

He's thoroughly misunderstanding the situation, which Dick finds hilarious given previous monologuing, but there's nothing to gain in pointing that out. He stoops, pulling down his pants and stepping out of them. “Nope. All good.”

Midnighter pulls one corner of his mouth into a sneer and rolls his eyes. He strips off his last item of clothing in one smooth motion, cupping himself with one large hand, and takes a step towards Dick. There’s no doubt he notices the way Dick steps back on instinct. But it seems he's misinterpreting that as well, because his expression changes into something that’s sympathetic and a bit disappointed. 

“Okay,” he says, wrapping a towel from a rack nearby around his middle, thereby obstructing the view at some rather well-shaped hip bones and the swell of an ass Dick can't quite see from this angle anyway. “Let’s cut through the bullshit here. I want you. I haven’t been subtle about that, so I know you know that. But you don’t have to worry. I don’t take anything that isn’t freely given, not like this, and just believe me when I tell you that I have pretty strict self-control. You could stand in front of me with that pretty little ass bare and accessible all day, and you’d still be perfectly safe.”

“I’m not worried,” Dick informs him, and hey, it's not like he's lying. He slips out of his underwear and takes the time to sort his clothes into a neat pile before he, unhurriedly, also reaches for a towel. Self-control is a good idea. Dick can do that, too. 

Midnighter throws his head back on a barking laugh and pushes the door open. “Wonderful. Let’s go, then."

 

***

 

Their mission wrapped, Midnighter returns him to Hadrian's with a few bruises and one hell of a headache, but otherwise not worse for the wear. He even hangs around to share the earful from Helena, which he endures with a grin and a few conspiratorial winks while insisting he kept Dick captive the entire time. Absolutely zero chance to run or contact Spyral, and _of course_ Dick didn't chose to stay and see the mission through. Helena looks like she buys precisely none of that. 

Which only adds to Dick's surprise when he gets called in for briefing a week later and finds a familiar cowled figure standing in front of Helena's desk. She's frowning while she tells Dick that there's another artifact to be retrieved and, yes, their collaboration is semi-official. 

Apparently Midnighter did at least ask, this time, and Helena agreed, grudgingly, to send them off together. The tech isn't related to anything Spyral has on its Christmas list, but it _is_ dangerous, and his ex-partner-become-boss cares a little less about her own agenda and a little more about keeping whacky space tech out of the hands of criminals than her predecessor did. The thing looks innocuous during the briefing, and _alien headband that can connect animals to the will of the wearer_ didn't sound too disastrous, but its first appearance had a whole pride of lions sicced on a densely populated, touristy shopping area of Cape Town, and yeah. Not to be underestimated. 

Their target has since switched continents and put the device up for sale in the usual circles, taking bids from everyone who knows how to find the right websites, and announcing the final auction will take place somewhere in Brisbane, so here they are. 

Once she's done talking, Midnighter calls them a _door_ – because time is of the essence and all that – and gleefully steps out of the way so Dick can walk through it first. 

Dick never did consider himself to have a weak stomach, in any definition of the phrase. But even after he's marched through these damn things more times than he bothers to count, he still finds himself with his hands braced on his knees upon emerging out of it. He's lightheaded, makes a point of breathing through his mouth because everything else would have just made him hurl. One would think anyone who spins himself through the air from high places at funny angles on the daily would be better at dealing with a disorienting loss of gravity. Apparently, that's not the case. 

Midnighter stands over him with a grin and the sort of pity on his face that can't quite decide between compassionate or mocking. But that's okay. Dick would expect nothing less. 

“Don't say it,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “Don't you say _anything_.” 

He ignores the amused snort and takes another deep breath before he dares righting himself. He squints at his surroundings; it was late evening when they started – where they started – and now it's bright daylight. The hot air and pressing humidity registers as an afterthought, and the skyline looks a little bit like Metropolis, except they're in Australia, not on the American coast. 

Turns out the cityscape isn't all that sets Metropolis and Brisbane apart. The heat here is oppressing, and it takes Dick roughly half an hour before he's sweating in places he didn’t even know he _could_ sweat, rivulets of it trickling down his back. It's entirely beyond him how Midnighter still manages to walk around in that heavy coat and _not_ die of a heatstroke. He does, however, seem somewhat disgruntled, and Dick finds himself not-so-subtly clearing his throat during their current, uh, interrogation, at regular intervals. 

To his credit, that's all he requires to scale it back a bit; Dick can actually _watch_ him hover his fist in mid-air a little longer, the next super-powered punch more likely to leave bruises than permanent nerve damage. It's still effective, and soon enough the address and time for a meet in an old office building to hand over the headband pour from bloodied lips. 

They march out of the warehouse without bothering to untie their source, and Dick's got his cell phone out to put in an anonymous tip with the local police in the same breath that Midnighter points out they have time to kill and suggests they find a bar. 

The establishment they land in can only very generously be described as a bar – it's more of a cheap dive – but Dick has long since learned that the fun lies in the company, not the place. And for all his faults, Midnighter can be rather entertaining. The stories he tells sound like more morally unsound, stranger versions of last year's space-themed blockbuster; but what makes them so good is that Dick assumes they're _true_ , if maybe a tad exaggerated. He's not a particularly skilled storyteller – sometimes tells them backwards and skips around and it's hard to keep track of the point of it all – but it's funnier that way. 

Somewhere in the back of Dick's head, a nagging voice that sounds suspiciously like Bruce reminds him he maybe shouldn't enjoy the company of a homicidal maniac with self-proclaimed psychopathic tendencies quite this much, but hey, Bruce is hardly one to talk. He's been banging _Catwoman_ on and off for the better part of a decade, and yeah, nope, that is not a thought Dick particularly wants to linger on. 

He turns his head when aforementioned company stands to get them a refill and watches him toss an easy smile at their barkeeper. The cowl has come off, the coat is drawn closed, and suddenly, between the two, Midnighter’s the inauspicious one. Somehow, the idea still grates; there’s a man behind that mask, and he’s… not unlikeable, on top of not being unattractive, now that Dick's losing his bias against him. And sure, it's not the first time Dick's seen him like this, but the weirdness of meeting him _as a person_ has yet to wear off. It might, eventually, and Dick's both curious and strangely nervous about what might happen when it does. He averts his eyes and reminds himself, yet again, that none of that matters. _Homicidal. Maniac. Psychopathic._. Not boyfriend material, hardly even one-night-stand material. That's just not going to happen. 

Midnighter orders them both soda with lemon, because they’re in the middle of a job and he’s learned that neither of them are regular drinkers, and it should bother Dick, that he _knows_ that. He returns with two full glasses, sits down, and waves a gloved hand in Dick’s face. “Where’d you drift off to?”

“Nowhere.” Dick reaches for his glass and sips, the water so cold it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Which, in this weather, counts as a pleasant sensation. “What’s your name?" he asks for something to say. "I mean, your actual name. You probably won’t answer and that’s fine, but you know mine and I – “

“Don’t have one,” Midnighter cuts him off, grimacing. Sensitive topic, then, and it helps Dick believe him, rather than assuming a lie or misdirection. “I don’t remember. I used an alias for awhile, but that became, I don’t know, kinda stale.” The usual grin spreads on his face, a bit leering, a bit suggestive, but ultimately, Dick suspects, just as much of a mask as his hypnos. “If you need something a bit less of a mouthful for your private thoughts, M will do.”

Dick scowls and rolls his eyes, mostly because that’s their playbook by now and it's expected. He doesn’t ask for details; part of him suddenly feels he already knows too much. They drink in silence for a few moments, then the coat rustles as Midnighter shifts on his chair, drawing on leg up to rest on top of the other.

“I saw you on the news,” he says, conversationally, as if he’s unaware that _that’s_ a sensitive topic too.

“Pretty much everyone did,” Dick replies. “That was kinda the point. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“I know,” says Midnighter, in a tone that implies he doesn’t need anyone stating the obvious. “And _my_ point is that maybe it’s not as terrible as you think, people knowing. Everyone who knows me knows who and what I am, pretty much, going in. The removal of a cowl or a domino mask wouldn’t have _me_ playing dead.”

A familiar twinge of guilt rushes down Dick’s spine, because playing dead wasn’t a choice so much as it was part of accepting a mission; a mission that’s built on the very belief that their secrets are essential, and that lying to everyone he loves is worth it if it means protecting them. “It’s not so easy.”

“Never is,” Midnighter says. He raises his drink and empties the rest of it with one long gulp, throat still working when his glass clanks to the table. He nods towards the clock on the wall and makes to get up. “If you want to get to the auction site the old-fashioned way, we should get going.”

 

***

 

All things considered, Dick thinks, there’s not that much of a difference between bullets roaring past his head in Gotham and bullets roaring past his head in foreign countries. Muscle memory kicks in either way, propelling his body forwards and sideways and up on instinct, reacting before he's had time to think about it. Rarely has he ever taken cover behind a _file cabinet_ , but there's a first time for everything and it _is_ pretty sturdy. He feels for his pocket again, making sure the alien headband is still safely tucked away, and looks around for his temporary partner. 

Good news is, Midnighter is one long stride away from him, about to dive behind the cabinet as well. Bad news is, he's practically _covered_ in blood. A bullet graze to the side of his head – standing out bright red against the black of the cowl – has blood running down his neck in a steady trickle. And while that's messy and looks _terrible_ , it's not the main cause for concern. No, that would be the way he's got a hand pressed to his right shoulder, blood seeping out from under there as well. Too much, too quickly, and Dick forces himself to look away from it, reminds himself that he's not dealing with a regular human being. For all Dick knows, that's hardly more than a papercut. 

Midnighter crouches down beside Dick, and if he's in pain, it's not showing in his expression. He's all business as he scans Dick's body in a quick once-over. “You okay?” 

Dick squints at him, because that's easier than admitting that he's worried, and also, _seriously_ , he's not the one who looks like he sprang straight from the violent finale of an action flick. “ _You're_ asking _me_ that? Have you seen yourself lately?” 

He's met with a shrug and a smirk. “Pure self-interest. If I fail to get you back in one piece, Bertinelli's gonna string me up by the unmentionables. I imagine that'll be more unpleasant than a bullet hole or two.” 

Swallowing down a complaint that this isn't his first gig and he doesn't need looking after, Dick peers around the cabinet. They're still surrounded by the smugglers they'd recently relieved of their most precious good. All exits are now blocked by heavy men with big guns. Fantastic. 

“I have the headband, and there's no other way out of here. Can you call us a door?” Dick asks, already steeling himself for the wave of nausea in his near future. 

Midnighter leans over a bit himself, following his line of sight. “Aww, you wanna leave already? Aren't you nostalgic? It's hot, we're sweaty, and someone's bleeding out. That's like our second date all over again.” 

Dick glares, dutifully, almost grateful for the invitation to fall back into their usual status quo. Midnighter raises his eyebrows. Dick keeps glaring. Given that he's usually the one who quips his way through a shootout, he's never quite realized how irritating it is. “Yeah, I'd like to leave. At your earliest convenience, but really, right now would be good.” 

His trademark grin isn't improved any by the blood smeared all over the side of his face, but Midnighter doesn't drop it even while he sighs, put-upon, and gives the command. “Fine. _Door._ ” 

The air crackles and, seconds later, they crawl through the portal, ducking to avoid another flurry of bullets in response to their escape. And then the noise is gone along with the heat, and they're both in the middle of a rather spacious, air-conditioned living room. 

“Where are we?” Dick asks, taking in the loft. He's got an inkling, but up until now, he hadn't even thought about where Midnighter lives. He sort of assumed he'd occupied a cell in the God Garden, or something even more exotic. He certainly didn't expect a comparatively well-maintained bachelor pad like this one. 

“My place,” confirms Midnighter, frowning slightly at the bloody hand print he leaves on the carpet when he pushes himself up. “Home sweet home, and wherever that is depends on where I _want_ it to be.” 

So much for this place not being exotic. Thinking back on their conversation in the bar, Dick decides he's had enough of Midnighter-backstory for one day and doesn't inquire further. Besides, he can imagine the somewhat otherworldy, alien-technology-related explanation for that one, and he's not even sure he _wants_ to know how that works. If it involves hovering in space or between dimensions or what the hell ever, he prefers to stay oblivious. 

“Great.” He gets to his feet, and nods at Midnighter's shoulder; he's still got his hand pressed down on it, and the bleeding hasn't stopped. “Then I assume you know where the first aid kit is.” 

Midnighter rolls the joint in question. The sight alone makes Dick want to wince. “Oh, that? That'll heal.” 

“I'm sure it will,” Dick argues, the tone and the stupid cowl combined with the attitude conspiring to raise his hackles. He's been there. He's had that same discussion many, many times since he was a teenager. Well, maybe not the _same_ discussion – most of the time his reluctant patient doesn't actually possess accelerated healing. Still, close enough. “But for the moment, it's bleeding."

"Ah," Midnighter says, grinning. "I didn't know you cared so much." 

"I need something to do with my hands," Dick corrects, the assumption that there's _caring_ involved bothering him for a multitude of reasons. He wishes he didn't. He can't work out what to do with the fact that he does. He knows it's unnecessary. "My stomach is still roiling from two interdimensional space walks within less than five hours. Just tell me where the damn kit is and sit down somewhere, so I can get the bullet out and sew it up.” 

The look Midnighter shoots him is somewhere between surprise and amusement, but he obediently sits on a stool by the kitchen counter, drags a second one close, and points to a door on the other side of the room. “Bathroom, one of the drawers under the sink. I don't remember exactly. Can't say I use it often.” 

Dick is a little bit surprised to find that the bathroom is, indeed, just a regular bathroom, no weird tech or gadgets. And the first aid kit is a cheap run-of-the-mile set you can get at any drug store across America, still sealed, and nestled between shaving equipment and deodorant. 

 

***

 

For someone who, as he hastens to point out _again_ , feels pain differently than your regular human being, Midnighter is a rather fickle patient. Either that, or he's purposefully being annoying. Which. Yeah. Probably the latter. But that works out, because it helps Dick ignore that there's less than a handwidth of space between them and that he can feel every small twitch of Midnighter's body so close to his own.

“So,” he says, rolling his shoulders, now bare so Dick can get at the wound. The movement dislodges the pair of too-small tweezers Dick's been using to get hold of the bullet still logged in his flesh. It's not the first time he's done it. “Field surgery is part of the curricular as a Bat apprentice, I'm assuming?”

Dick heroically resists the urge to punch him in the shoulder. The one he's working on. The one with the bullet hole. 

“This is hardly surgery,” he corrects. “And I'll have you know, it's not the Bat who's teaching first aid, it's the...” And that's where he stops himself, because as familiar as this is starting to feel, Midnighter's still a stranger, and one with shifting allegiances. It doesn't matter what's happening between the two of them. Dick's not going to tell him about Alfred, or the family, or anything that could identify them. “Never mind.” 

“And again with the secrets,” says Midnighter. But he doesn't pry, just straightens and finally, finally keeps still to let Dick work. He doesn't move a muscle while Dick digs around in the wound with the tweezers, doesn't so much as hiss when he dislodges the bullet, pulls it out and deposits it in a small bowl on the counter, where it lands with a ping. 

In the process, the bleeding has picked up again, and Dick has to grab a towel to wipe them both down before he can set upon threading a needle for the next step. He rubs at his nose, and only realizes when Midnighter's gaze falls to his face and neck that he's just smeared blood all over himself. The sharp coppery smell of it is permeating the air, too, and Dick pinches his eyes closed. 

He makes quick work of the stitching; he's done it enough times that it's become ingrained, his fingers digging the needle into flesh and dragging it out almost on their own accord. The moment he's done, he stands and makes a beelines to the sink, eager to wash off the blood. 

Midnighter, meanwhile, drags his fingertips over the raised skin of the wound. “Not bad. Maybe you should have used all that Wayne money for a proper education, instead of a costume and a gravestone.” Dick opens his mouth to point out he _did_ attend some pretty expensive schooling, but Midnighter waves him off. “I know, I know. I'm kidding. I don't think anyone who's spent more than five minutes with you could imagine you in scrubs. Although your ass _would_ look great in them.” 

For some reason, the reminder that Midnighter's taken a liking to his anatomy is a little harder to ignore when the latter sits before him sans cowl and coat. It's more immediate, and the innuendo doesn't make the fact that it's becoming a mutual sentiment any less confusing. Dick's actually kinda glad he's turned away, got ample excuse to stare at his hand while he dries them on a fresh towel. 

The stool scratches over tiles when Midnighter stands. It means Dick knows he's moving, but he's silent enough that Dick only notices his approach when his hands come down on the counter at either side of Dick's body. For a moment, he just stands there, hovering, close enough that Dick can feel the heat of him; letting Dick feel that. Dick's heartbeat picks up at the proximity, and he once again kinda wishes it was in fear. He's also aware, from previous monologuing, that it won't go unnoticed. He feels caught, and in that moment he's sure he's been found out. 

Midnighter leans in and breathes a near-whispered _thanks_ against his neck. He's _right there_ and part of Dick wants to push into him, grind back against him, see what happens. Try this on for size and see if he likes it. Not like he's got much to lose, anyway. They aren't close, aren't yet friends. If this goes south they can both walk away like it never happened. 

But he hesitates a little too long, and then Midnighter steps back. “I'm taking a shower. Feel free to make yourself at home in the meantime. Get something from the fridge, the works.” 

 

***

 

Midnighter marches out of the bathroom about ten minutes later, towel loosely wrapped around his hips, hair wet and slicked back, and unlike back in the bath house, Dick allows himself to look at his leisure. They're the same height, but Midnighter's a bit heavier, his build more suited towards strength and less towards agility. He also looks younger than Dick's first pegged him – but what does he know, that might be the _enhancements_ at work. Dick leans against the counter and watches him putter around in the kitchen, clearing away the remains of the first aid kit, the ruined towel and the bloody cotton swabs, seemingly in no hurry to get dressed. Dick's not sure if it's trust or a calculated display of unconcern. 

Dick sees him coming, this time, when Midnighter nudges him with his hip in order to get at a cupboard where Dick's standing, and yet Dick nearly flinches at the contact. Closes his eyes against the maybe, his own indecisiveness. Recalls all the reasons why he _shouldn't_. 

When he opens them again, Midnighter's eying him with a crestfallen expression that's slightly familiar, last seen in that locker room in Moscow. He's arrived at the wrong conclusion once more, and it's endearing in sad way, that he defaults to assuming he's scared someone. “Is this about earlier? You still worried? I may have misinterpreted, but I thought we'd been past that.” 

Midnighter looks at him, waiting, unassuming, less threatening than some of the so-called good guys Dick's met, and that might be the final push Dick needed to make up his mind. He's always been prone to split-second decisions, he makes one now; to go with his gut, to _jump_. 

"No," he says. "I'm not worried. 

He crosses the room and grips Midnighter's arm. He meets no resistance; he didn't quite expect any. There's a flicker of stunned confusion on Midnighter's face while Dick leads him away from the counter and towards the nearest wall, but he recovers quickly, merely looking curious while he lets Dick put him where he wants him. A bed might be nicer, but that'd require talking and patience and second thoughts. Dick doesn't _want_ second thoughts. He'll think about this later, once it's done. Midnighter's back hits the wall and Dick leans in close, smiling, placing a kiss to the side of his mouth, then another dead center. He kisses back almost immediately, and Dick can feel a hand land on his hip, then draw back, as if unsure whether that's on the table. 

“So that spike in your heart rate earlier _was_ interest,” Midnighter says the moment they part. “What exactly do you want from me? What do you think you're doing here?” 

Dick cocks his head. “Freely giving,” he says, and he can see the implication land and then settle. Midnighter licks his lips. His eyes widen, pupils quickly dilating, and seeing the impact those two simple words have on him is unexpectedly gratifying. 

And yet, he hesitates, one hand coming up to rub across his forehead. “Okay. I gotta hear it. You sure about this?” 

“Yeah.” Dick reaches down and undoes the towel, keeping eye contact as it falls to the floor. “Pretty sure.” 

He's planning to reach down and get this party started, but he doesn't quite get that far. Midnighter spins them around and, before Dick quite knows it, _he's_ the one pressed to the cold, unforgiving wall. There are fingers fumbling his belt buckle open and shoving his pants and underwear down to just below his ass, and Midnighter crowds in close, aligning them so he can take them both in hand simultaneously. 

And while that's nice – it's fucking awesome, actually – now that this is happening, Dick's impatient. He hadn't planned on this, planned on doing this _with him_ , but his last time with a guy was awhile back. He remembers how it had felt, having someone inside him. The slight burn at first; the stretch that's odd and uncomfortable for a few seconds and then explodes into pleasure. His skin prickles with anticipation. He puts a hand on Midnighter's wrist to still him, then turns, widening his stance and dropping his head down between his shoulders, back arched, making it a clear offering. 

To his surprise and heavy disappointment, Midnighter _steps away_ , and Dick glances back over his shoulder. He glares, vexed. Anger at being left hanging buzzes through him, rising quickly, and he opens his mouth to hurl out a colorful complaint. 

“Oh, don't worry,” Midnighter preempts him, and his tone is actually _reassuring_. “Just getting a few things from – “

Dick shakes his head, because he doesn't really have the words to explain that he's not a blushing virgin in this regard, and besides, he can't _wait_ that long. “My wallet. Left back pocket. There's condoms and lube.” 

“Not your first time, then?” Midnighter asks with a whistle. “I don't know whether I'm delighted or disappointed.” 

“Do you ever shut up?” Dick _is_ aware that _that_ question is usually thrown in his direction, but this is one of the rare occasions where doesn't feel like talking, just feels like doing. “Or do you have to keep up a running commentary on everything?”

In lieu of a verbal reply, Midnighter's hand digs into his pocket. He unearths the wallet as instructed, and moments later there's the sound of a sachet being ripped open, then the near-obscene squelch that comes with rubbing the liquid to body temperature between someone's fingers. Dick shudders as they tease down his cleft with clear intent, sucks his lower lip between his teeth as those clever, experienced fingers work him open. 

Then he lines himself up and pushes in, and what follows isn't rushed, exactly, but insistent, rough, and _perfect_. Midnighter snakes one strong arm around his ribcage, holding him close, the other hand splayed low on his hip, and sets a quick, unyielding pace that Dick mirrors with his fist pumping around his own cock. He doesn't stop when Dick comes, a little sooner than he'd like, and by the time his rhythm falters and crests, Dick's not sure whether he wants to yell at Midnighter to get lost or to keep going, try and get him off a second time, just like this. 

Midnighter steps away and Dick hears the tell-tale snap of a condom being removed before he turns around and finds him grinning; the asshole isn't even breathing hard. “I sure hope that wasn't a one time thing and we're doing it again. Because I'd really like the chance to fuck you properly, slowly, memorize how you look when you're so strung out on it that you hardly remember your own name, so that I can picture it every time we meet from here on in.” 

His expression is self-satisfied and unbearably smug, and it _shouldn't_ sound quite so enticing. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” is all Dick can currently muster. “Let me catch my breath first.” 

Midnighter rolls his shoulders in exaggerated nonchalance. “Sure. Maybe you'd like a shower. You have my blood smeared on your neck, which is not as good a look on you as I would have imagined.” He leans back in a little, winking. “Oh, and be thorough. I have plans for that ass and they're going to be so much more fun when you're all nice and clean.” 

Dick can't shake the feeling that he's being crass on purpose, testing him to see if he'll back down. He merely flips the bird in reply, already heading off to the bathroom. 

 

*** 

 

When he comes back out, Midnighter's sitting on the bed, wearing boxers, eyes politely cast downward. The display is sort of ruined by the condoms and the bottle of lube already on the nightstand, but Dick recognizes the gesture: giving him an out, a chance to change his mind, which Dick finds charming, but has no intention on taking. 

Midnighter looks up when Dick comes to a stop in front of the bed, and clears his throat. His eyes go wide all over again as they slowly rake over the whole of Dick's naked body. “You really are gorgeous, head to toe.” 

Arrogant as it may sound, but that's an old tune, used by so many people in so many contexts, and too often meant to be derisive. Plus, _you're pretty_ can be quite the threat when spoken by the wrong people in the wrong situation. And yet the tone and the expression make it land just the right way, a genuine compliment. Dick kneels on the bed and doesn't waste any time, leans forward, puts a hand on Midnighter's jaw and kisses him. 

It's his turn to move in compliance with an unspoken command when Midnighter pushes him down without even breaking the kiss, wriggling out of his boxers in the same move with unexpected grace. Midnighter's grinning as he pulls back, but it's not his usual Cheshire cat sneer; it's more content, joyful, excited. 

He slides down Dick's body and kneels between his legs. With two fingers, he pinches the base of Dick's rapidly filling cock. His lips wrap around the tip, sucking gently, then a little less so, head bobbing up and down, his eyes closed, expression loose and reverent. The sight is surprising enough that Dick keeps his own eyes open despite the pleasure, the urge to close out all other senses and concentrate on the waves of arousal that course through his groin. But he watches, even as the the sensation builds and warm bliss begins to flood his whole body, makes goosebumps raise across his skin across its path. Far too soon, he withdraws and sits up on his haunches, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. 

“Turn around, on all fours,” he orders. Dick shoots him a glance that hopefully paints a clear picture of his opinion on being ordered around in bed, and Midnighter laughs, a soft sound, genuinely amused. “Please?” 

Dick turns and lifts himself up. He lowers his head between his shoulders and screws his eyes shut, then nearly jumps when he feels a hand on the small of his back, slowly gliding lower. He _does_ flinch, just slightly, at the brush of a thumb against his hole, still sensitive from earlier. The same hand that caressed him moments ago is now spreading him open, drawing his cheeks apart for what he assumes is a better view, and he feels his face heat at the thought. 

The wet sensation of a tongue licking up the furled skin of his perineum isn't quite a surprise, neither is that tongue to lapping against his hole. 

“Anyone ever done this for you?” 

It takes a moment for the words to penetrate the haze, align correctly and make sense. 

His history with men has so far consisted of a few bar hookups to scratch an itch, quick and dirty and no names given so he won't have to lie, due to the always-present fear someone would recognize him and march straight to the press. It's not like he's _ashamed_ ; his family wouldn't care and he doesn't much care about public opinion.ut he's seen his name in enough headlines to last him a lifetime, his private anguish displayed on them in bold letters before he even became associated with anything Wayne. So no, no one's ever done this for him. None of them have ever been allowed to take their time. 

He shakes his head. 

He's grateful when Midnighter doesn't speak again, and continues what he'd started, tongue teasing at the ring of muscle, then dipping inside. The sensation builds slowly, getting better and better the longer it lasts, and soon Dick's arms are starting to shake, protesting his weight, and he lowers himself down. By now, he doesn't care that it makes his position even _more_ obscene and exposed. He buries his face against his arms, panting and moaning, his own breath puffing out wet and irregular against his skin. 

Just when he thinks he's going to fly apart, the gentle pressure around him, _in_ him – just enough to drive him insane but not to get him off – Midnighter pulls back, the bed dipping as he helps himself to a condom from the nightstand. Then he wraps a hand around Dick's middle, dragging him up, and sinks inside him. It's a little too fast, still, even though it's not the first time today, and Dick suppresses a hiss at the added burn, but pushes back against him anyway, demanding and goading him on. 

After the first few, long thrusts, Midnighter flips him onto his back and lifts him so Dick's weight rests on his thighs. He nearly bends Dick in half, the angle making it easier for him to push in impossibly deep. He's close enough that their foreheads touch, and Dick finally blinks his eyes open>. He's acutely aware who he's with, who's doing this to him, _for_ him, when he comes on a small, half-swallowed shout, his cock basically untouched and he didn't even know that was _possible_. 

 

*** 

 

For the second time in the space of an hour, Dick saunters out of Midnighter's bathroom after a shower and, for the second time, he finds Midnighter sitting on his bed, waiting for him. He's covered himself with the sheet, and Dick takes that as an invitation to flop onto the bed and rest his head in the other man's lap instead of getting dressed. He draws his legs up and braces himself, banking on a shove and a quip. 

Neither happens. Midnighter sighs, put-upon, but he proceeds to rake a hand through Dick's hair in a rather unexpected display of post-coital affection, and so Dick gets comfortable. 

“So I'm assuming you do this regularly?” he asks, partly out of interest, and also because it's the first thought that springs to mind and he wants to say _something_. 

“Yes and no,” comes the reply; it sounds a little forlorn. “Believe it or not, until a few months ago I'd only ever been with one person.” 

Dick stiffens. It sounds like past tense, but nevertheless, he'd hate it if he'd managed to butt into a preexisting relationship here. “But that's over?” 

“I thought so, but recently...I haven't been so sure.” The hand in his hair stills for a moment. “He's not back in the picture _yet_ , if that's why you asked.” They lapse into silence, and for a moment Dick almost feels like there's a third person in the room. Then Midnighter jiggles his leg, not enough to make Dick's head slip off, but enough so he has to scramble to stay in place. “What about you?”

“Nothing official,” he says, chest going tight with something like shame. He feels like a coward for keeping his preferences under wraps, however little his reasons have to do with fear of discovery. “I'd rather not talk about it now.” 

When Midnighter speaks again, it's with slight amusement and a hint of fondness in his voice. “I forgot how young you are.” 

“I'm plenty old enough to know who I am,” Dick says. He presses his head into Midnighter's leg and scowls. The reaction is automatic. He's got a hair-trigger in that regard, courtesy of being forced to defend his autonomy during discussions in the Cave once too often. “And I can make my own decisions.”

“And yet you're still young enough to sound like a mutinous teenager.” 

Dick bites down on the counterargument that builds in his throat. Wrong addressee, and besides, he's not going to let _Bruce_ harsh his afterglow, even in absentia. 

“So how old are you?” he asks instead, and this time, it's Midnighter who tenses underneath him. 

“Since that didn't interest you while I had my tongue up your ass, I'm not sure it matters now,” he replies, and wow, fuck, after their conversation in Brisbane, Dick probably should have known that question would be weighted. Turns out, he's capable of harshing their afterglow all on his own. 

He sits up so he can look Midnighter in the eye. “In other words, you don't know that either?” 

“Not exactly, no,” he says, and of course he's not avoiding Dick's gaze – he wouldn't – but his distaste for the topic is reflected clear enough. “I have a rough idea, obviously, but I can't be sure.” 

The question is right there – _what happened to you, how did you become this way? _– and he knows bits and pieces, filtered out of mid-battle speeches. But the truth is, Dick simply doesn't feel entitled to an answer yet. He's fully aware how odd that might seem, given how much Midnighter found out about him, but that was _before_. Before they stood on the same side, before they began seeing each other as people, before... well, _this_. Now he's maybe something like a friend, and Dick's going to respect his privacy. __

__They've lost the mellow, pleasant post-hookup mood, though, and it occurs to Dick that he'll have to write a mission report later, accounting for the time they spent together after they left Brisbane. Spyral is tracking him; they might not figure out exactly where he was and what he was doing, but they'll know when he left Australia._ _

__He makes to stand, smiling apologetically. “I should go.”_ _

__Midnighter nods and follows. By the time Dick has collected his uniform, and spent some time scrubbing blood and a few treacherous stains from their first time in the hallway out and putting it on, Midnighter is waiting for Dick in the kitchen, hip leaned against the counter and sipping what Dicks assumes is coffee from a still steaming mug._ _

__“See you around,” he says, raising the mug in lieu of a wave. “ _Door._ ”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com).


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